


Sweet Dreams

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-17
Updated: 2008-08-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: What can Gene do when his bed no longer seems confortable?Chapter 1 was written as a bit of fluffy pre-slash for the 1973flashfic 'comfort' challenge. Chapter 2 completes the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

Gene sighs and carefully rolls over onto his side. He should be comfortable right now, but he isn’t. He likes his bed: the mattress is just the right balance of soft and firm, and the feather pillows always mould themselves into the right shape for a good night’s sleep.

 

 

But not tonight.

 

 

Tonight he’s wide awake and restless, and it doesn’t matter what position he tries because it’s not helping. 

 

 

Not tonight.

 

 

He had thought that nothing could be worse than that rubbish fold-out cot in Tyler’s crappy bedsit, so just goes to show how wrong you can be.

 

 

In fact, right at this moment Gene heartily wishes that he’d just agreed when Sam suggested that they crashed at his place, rusty springs and thin mattress be damned. But no; instead he’d had to suggest they came back here for a nightcap since the missus was off visiting her mother for a couple of days. And one nightcap led to several, and then it seemed only polite to suggest that Sam stayed instead of walking home in the rain. 

 

 

Which all makes sense.

 

 

But quite how he ended up sharing his bed with Sam is beyond him. 

 

 

The spare room wasn’t made-up so he was going to give Sam a blanket and leave him on the sofa – would have been luxury compared to Sam’s own bed, after all. But instead there had been some pointed comments about hospitality (from Sam) and being a big girl’s blouse (from Gene) and not being man enough to share (from Sam) and _definitely_ being man enough to share (from Gene).

 

 

Which didn’t make any sense at all now that he comes to think about it.

 

 

The annoying little git is sound asleep, his breathing slow and even, and Gene is tempted to kick him awake just so that he isn’t suffering alone. 

 

 

Problem is, he can’t kick Sam because kicking him involves touching him.

 

 

Touching him in bed in the dark, naked foot to naked foot. 

 

 

And if Gene starts doing that sort of thing then he’s not sure where it will end. 

 

 

He shifts further to his side of the bed, trying to get as far away from the other man’s body as he can. He’s perched uncomfortably on the edge – in more ways than one - and for a moment he wonders whether that’s a metaphor or a simile and manages to distract himself quite successfully. But then Sam moves in his sleep and Gene can think of nothing other than the bony knee pressing against his thigh. 

 

 

He closes his eyes against the dark and something darker throbs behind his lids.

 

 

Bollocks. He’s been awake so long he’s starting to sober-up, which is a good thing because he’s less likely to do something stupid, but a bad thing because if he _does_ do something stupid he can’t blame it on the booze.

 

 

Then again, maybe the headache will take his mind off things. But the more he tries _not_ to think about it the more he does, until he’s sure he can feel Sam edging ever-so-slightly closer with each unconscious breath.

 

 

But it’s the arm that makes him finally move: Sam’s arm, which Gene finds suddenly draped across his chest. For a second he can hear the sound of his own pulse beating in his head. 

 

 

Then Gene moves.

 

 

He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet but Sam continues sleeping anyway as Gene slides out of bed and pads out to the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him. He rests his back against the door while his heartbeat slows to a more sensible pace. Right: bathroom first to get rid of the stiffy he’s had for the last couple of hours, then downstairs and he’ll worry about thinking up an explanation in the morning. 

 

 

Fortunately, Gene has a very comfortable sofa.


	2. Chapter 2: In the Cold Light of Day

  
Author's notes: It's the morning after. Can Gene cope with a hangover and reclaim his bed?  


* * *

It’s early when Gene wakes. 

 

 

He’s got a crick in his neck, the bloody birds are going at it hammer-and-tongs outside the window, and the sun is streaming in where he didn’t close the curtains quite far enough. 

 

 

But then he’s not used to sleeping in his lounge.

 

 

Gene throws off the blanket and traipses into the kitchen. Tea is what’s called for to banish the remainder of his hangover: strong, with enough sugar in it to make the spoon stand up on its own.

 

 

Almost as an afterthought he makes one for Tyler as well. He grins with grim satisfaction as he considers that the irritating little git must be nursing the hangover from hell. Just deserts, considering that Sam has had free range of Gene’s bed all night. Mugs in hand Gene heads up the stairs, pushing his bedroom door open with one elbow. 

 

 

He tries desperately not to look at the sight on the bed, but he’s only human when all’s said and done. 

 

 

Sam is sprawled face-down, one bare leg emerging from the covers in a tantalising fashion. Gene is thankful that Sam is at least wearing a pyjama top – then he looks closer and realises that it’s _his_ pyjama top, and he can’t for the life of him remember how that happened. He drags his eyes away when Sam starts to stir. Wouldn’t do to stare, after all.

 

 

So Gene’s not looking, and he’s so absolutely _not_ looking that he _doesn’t_ notice the smooth slide of muscle beneath skin as Sam stretches and rolls; and he _certainly_ doesn’t see the shadow formed in the crease of Sam’s thighs (bloody hell – isn’t he wearing anything else?), or the way the pyjama top hangs loosely off one shoulder, exposing the ridge and hollows of a collarbone. 

 

 

Gene blinks, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s seen Sam completely naked before (and handcuffed to his bed, no less), but somehow seeing him partially clothed is far more unsettling.

 

 

Before Gene has a chance to wonder about that, Tyler is yawning and sitting up, running a hand through his already-tousled hair to make it stand up on end. He’s a conflicting combination of innocence and debauchery, and for a moment he looks much, much younger. 

 

 

If Gene had been feeling uncomfortable before, he feels positively dirty now.

 

 

Sam is peering at him, and Gene realises with mounting horror that he can feel himself starting to stiffen. Christ Almighty. The thin cotton of his pyjama trousers is not going to hide anything. 

 

 

Only one option, then.

 

 

“Here.” He thrusts a mug into Sam’s hand, plonks his own on the bedside table, and slides back into bed, pulling the covers up before Sam gets an eyeful of his morning glory.

 

 

Sam is looking rather bemused, a frown creasing his forehead.

 

 

“Where did you go?”

 

 

Gene grunts. “Downstairs. You were snoring.” He reaches for his tea.

 

 

Sam’s frown deepens. “I don’t snore.”

 

 

“Well, you did last night.” His tone brooks no disagreement.

 

 

Sam puts his mug on the table at his side of the bed and lies back, running a hand over his face. He looks oddly vulnerable.

 

 

Gene takes a sip of his tea. “How’d you feel?”

 

 

Sam gives a groan. “Like there’s a Frenchman in my head.”

 

 

Gene snorts. “Sounds like a treat. Drink your tea; that’ll buck you up.”

 

 

But Sam doesn’t. Instead, he rolls over onto his side, facing Gene; edging closer. 

 

 

Gene’s had enough of being coerced out of his own bed (besides, Little Gene is still standing to attention) so he sips his tea stoically, trying to think about the fact that the lawn needs mowing and _not_ about the fact that he can feel the body heat radiating from Sam like a bloody coal fire. Sam suddenly moves closer, leaning in like a curious, predatory cat, and for a surreal second Gene thinks he’s about to lick him. 

 

 

But Sam pulls back, nose wrinkling.

 

 

“You smell like a brewery.”

 

 

There’s a momentary delay while Gene remembers to breathe again.

 

 

“You’re non-too fragrant yourself, Gladys, so I reckon we cancel each other out.” He’s pleased that his voice sounds only slightly hoarse.

 

 

Sam doesn’t reply, but settles himself more comfortably, his eyes falling shut.

 

 

“What time is it, anyway?” he murmurs.

 

 

“Still early.”

 

 

“Still sleepy.” Sam mumbles.

 

 

Gene looks at him in disbelief. The little bastard is going back to sleep.

 

 

“Are you going back to sleep?”

 

 

“I was thinking about it – unless there’s something else you’d rather do.”

 

 

And brown eyes, clear and fully awake, are regarding him with a thoughtful gleam. 

 

 

Gene freezes. 

 

 

Here it is: the point he’s been dreading and longing for in equal measure. The moment of truth, finally, that all those barbed comments, veiled looks and manly tussles have been leading to.

 

 

But it’s the arm that makes him finally move: Sam’s arm, which Gene finds suddenly reaching across to take the mug of cooling tea from Gene’s nerveless fingers and standing it safely out of the way. For a second they just look at each other. 

 

 

Then Gene moves.

 

 

Closes the short distance between them, meeting Sam’s mouth, tasting stale whisky and sleep and _Sam_ ; and maybe he’s gone mad or is still dreaming or something because he can’t think why else something this wrong could feel so completely and utterly right.

 

 

It still feels right when Sam starts stripping Gene’s clothes off, and any fleeting concerns about how he must look are driven right out of his head when Sam slides lower and swallows Gene’s cock like he’s been doing this all his life.

 

 

It still feels right when Gene is curled over Sam’s back, buried in him, as Sam urges him on with the most obscene running commentary Gene has ever heard.

 

 

And it still feels right when they are lying tangled together afterwards, sated and sticky, and Sam gives him an almost-shy grin as he moves closer, pressing the length of his body against Gene, and sliding an arm over his chest.

 

 

So Gene doesn’t think about how wrong this is.

 

 

He just moves his arm so that Sam can snuggle closer, and listens to his breathing, slow and regular, as he drifts off into sleep. 

 

 

Gene’s aware of the sweat and come drying on his skin, the ache in muscles he didn’t even know he had, and thinks that he shouldn’t be at all comfortable.

 

 

But he is.


End file.
